


I Want (Your Hands on Me)

by poisontaster



Series: Heart 'Verse [20]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Permanent Injury, Porn with Feelings, Sibling Incest, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-12
Updated: 2007-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5779702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set indeterminately. What it says on the tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want (Your Hands on Me)

Sam wakes up to the brush of Dean's mouth across his and a light fingernail scrape across his nipple. His surprised little noise is swallowed up; his eyes flick open (fast) and then flutter closed (slow). Heat pounds in his head, his stomach, in the sudden fullness of his cock, pressed against Dean's and between their bellies. Considering that most of Dean's wake-ups involve either cold water and/or shaving cream, this is a big improvement.

Sam's afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe, unsure what brought this on, not trusting Dean to not get him riled up and then jerk the carpet out from underneath. It's hard not to undulate, though; to shift and mold under the press of Dean's hand at the small of his back, the solidity of the rest of Dean at his front. So often Sam has to top from the bottom, pushing Dean past all the bullshit in his brain that says _can't_ and _don't_ and _wrong_. It's hard to let go of that iron grip on the reins and just let this happen, let Dean do whatever it is that he wants.

It's _really_ fucking hot, too.

The rough edge of Dean's fingernail—bitten, ragged—ripples up Sam's pectoral, carving a line of freezing heat up Sam's throat to his jaw, pushing Sam's head back until their mouths slide apart with a slick, luscious noise and Dean's lips ravel down to gnaw lightly at Sam's Adam's apple and suck blood up to blush through his skin on either side.

Sam's mouth opens in soundless moans, gasping, rasping, the choked noise of his own voice always a shock, rough-edged and so blatantly desperate. He doesn't know if he can last long enough to make it to the fucking, the suddenness of being woken like this leaping over his restraint, his common sense. He has no barriers or defenses, blasted raw.

_…want, want, WANT…_

At the same time, Dean won't let Sam just rut off against him, holding him too tight and too close for good friction and this is new. Dean dictating the terms, Dean manhandling him, Dean all over him, all around him; it's been years since he's felt _enclosed_ , once he outgrew laps and arms and lost the ability to admit he still wanted it.

Dean returns to Sam's mouth again, grinding, coaxing, teasing and Sam hears himself sobbing into Dean's mouth, soft and urgent, nearly begging. It's so much, so fast. Dean is murmuring, rhythmic nonsense, and Sam can’t hear any of it above the race of his own blood, his own noise.

He almost loses it when Dean reaches between them to touch Sam with a slick, blunt finger. He clenches tight around it, even with Dean coaxing low and rumbling into his mouth, “Let me, c’mon Sam, let me, shhh, open up, baby, open…”

The friction of Dean’s finger inside him is incredible; Sam could probably come from this alone except he doesn’t want to, yearning after his brother’s cock rubbing hard and eager against his own.

“Dean—“ It’s a plea; no way to make it anything other than what it is and Sam doesn’t care, if begging gets him what he wants.

There’s some fumbling as Dean balances on his one good leg; it’s natural and instinct for Sam to reach up, lift his knee and support him, some of Dean’s weight falling against Sam’s leg as he guides his cock between Sam’s legs. The first driving thrust makes Sam’s back arch, Dean’s amulet scraping down his skin. Dean's mouth seals over Sam's, rough and hard and soft and then Sam just can't think about it anymore, letting go, sinking down into the rhythm, into _this_ : just him and Dean and no room in the world for anything else.

_Dean…God, Dean…_

Sam comes way too soon, shuddering, clenching pulses that seem to press his brain out through his skin. He clings helplessly to his brother, too lost in it to do more than gasp without sound, Dean's teeth hooked into Sam's bottom lip and Dean beaming into his skin.

It's hard to regret it, though—even with the teasing he's in for—when early orgasm gives him the opportunity to really _feel_ Dean in him when he's already open and sensitive and just starting to be sore. When he can watch his brother come, the quiet, deeply blissful face that Dean tries so hard to hide at every other time and only shows now, when he can't help it.

The soft, hurting noise Dean makes on his last thrust-spurt makes Sam twitch with delicious aftershock; he threads his hands through Dean's short hair, thumbs stroking down the shaved lines of his sideburns. He brings Dean to his mouth and kisses deeply, slowly, enjoying the sweet laxness of it, the lazy, wet sloppiness of it, fading toward drowsiness.

Dean's nail scrapes lightly across the taut bud of Sam's nipple, mauling the tip with the ball of his finger. Sam's surprised little noise is swallowed up; his eyes flick open (fast) and then flutter closed (slow).

This is all he ever wants.


End file.
